


Beg

by CopperMask (Hard_boiled_candy)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Contemporary AU, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 10:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20152195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hard_boiled_candy/pseuds/CopperMask
Summary: Cas is falling in love with a drifter who ended up at his house when his wife Meg brought him home. Now Meg has left and Dean... Dean is more than Cas dares dream of.





	Beg

**Author's Note:**

> Hint of non-con, but not really.

I don’t want to hear myself begging, when we come to the end of this. 

This.

Mornings of him, scruffy and hair like a haystack, smacking his lips over his coffee. Evenings spent in the garage, him talking cars and places he’s been and jobs he’s done, and doing endless maintenance on his dinosaurian vehicle, me consuming beer and watching him pose. He gets things done, but he does pose.

I asked him about that and he says he modelled in his late teens. “When I was fifteen, I learned how to stand, and I learned how to suck dick,” he said.

“I don’t see how that involved consent.”

“That’s not what I told myself at the time. Whatever I was then, I know about consent now. You know what I like best about you?”

Dean laughs at my expression. “Yeah, little ol’ you.” He’s known me a few weeks. “You’ve never asked to take pictures.”

“My memory will always be better than photos. I have that picture of you in front of the Impala on my phone, I don’t need more.”

“You sure about that?”

“What, you think I don’t like you because I don’t want pictures?”

“Everybody else does,” he mutters.

“Well fuck you, since when am I everybody else.” I put the beer down (I know he’ll finish it) and glare at him. Then I said, “You said you liked it about me and now we’re arguing about it. You are  _ crazymaking _ .”

“Yeah, well, I am.”

I went back inside. Before I say something stupid, maybe, “I like that about you,” back at him.

He does drive me crazy. 

I go to bed earlier than him and get up later; he’s a hummingbird and I’m a sloth.

He says as he slides in next to me, “I want to hold you down.” My skin prickles and he gentles a knowing hand across me and covers my dick with his hand. “I’m not really into that,” I say. “Not right now,” I say. I’m lying my ass off, and he knows it. His hand falters in its promenade across my sexual sensorium and he says, “No?”

“Would it make you happy to hold me down?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I don’t think I’d enjoy it much if you don’t.”

“Do you want me to pretend to enjoy it?” I ask, and kiss him, and that part is always a timeless classic. When he kisses me there’s no rush. Kissing takes priority over almost everything, for him. He digs in, he floats, he caresses, sucking and stroking and making me gasp. Nobody in this world or any other kisses like that. 

“Give me a safeword if you stop being able to pretend,” he says after about fifteen drugging minutes, and about forty-five seconds later, after he’s laughed at me because my safeword is ‘safeword’, we’re fucking face to face and he’s holding my arms down over my head and nibbling on my neck and shoulder, hard but not enough to really hurt or break the skin. He’s not doing anything to touch me, or help me along. The softness of the kissing is gone; he’s taking me. He pulls out and applies more lube and I’m melting inside as he fucks me, I’ve lost the ability to protest, or do anything but lie there like a brain-dead cockslut as he ploughs me. I can hear myself whine as our chests collide. He comes, takes off the condom andstarts to suck me off. I make a noise, and somehow he correctly interprets this to mean that I want kisses; he gives me a handjob while jamming his tongue down my throat, and I come. The next thing I know the sun’s across the bed and he’s got coffee in his hand and a guarded look on his face.

“How do you feel about marriage?” I grunted, accepting the cup. 

“Um, what?”

“You’re bringing me coffee.”

“I have a favor to ask.”

“See previous sentence.”

“Okay, well, I’ve got another two week contract in town before I have to go to Oklahoma,” he says.

“That’s not far.”

“Yeah, a days’ drive,” he says, his mind on something else.

“Of course you can stay.” I said.

“I wouldn’t want to act like I think it’s guaranteed,” he says. His hair’s all smoothed back now, and he’s in his working clothes; his safety vest is on but his boots are by the door. 

“What, another few weeks of the best sex of our lives,” I grunt. “What a shame.”

“It isn’t just sex,” he says, guiltily.

“Relax,” I say. “It’s two guys helping each other out.” We aren’t dating, we aren’t part of a social scene, it’s just the two of us, me waiting until he comes home every night, me trying not to beg.

He’s never once said to me, “So, why do you never leave the house?” He picks up dinner instead. He’s shopped for food twice. He even cooks dinner sometimes, after working a full day. I don’t know how he does it.

He does start asking me if it’s okay if we don’t have sex today, like he’s somehow my sex slave, and needs to apologize for the requirement to recharge, which is not how it seems to me. He’s trying to prove that it isn’t all about sex and can’t think of another way to do it.

“If you tell a  _ living soul _ how much I like to cuddle I will  _ end _ you.” Every morning I wake up and he’s glommed onto me like a barnacle. There’s no one to talk to about Dean. Nobody who knows me would believe me if they knew, that he makes me feel almost normal, and that my wife dragged him home for a threesome… and she left and he didn’t.  _ Thank you Meg. _

I look at him blearily. “Who are you, again?”

“Shaddap!”

And then, after a month and half of living with him, he’s gone. The contract is over. He’s going to be an eight hour drive away, and he ‘doesn’t fly.’ I don’t expect to see him again, even though he casually says that he’ll be back. He’s never lived with anyone in his adult life who wasn’t a relative or a coworker at a man-camp. He called himself a homeless guy and he seems okay with it.

I did leave the house the day Dean left. I walked to the end of the walkway, dizzy but determined, to watch his Impala disappear around the curve in the road, and I staggered back inside and collapsed inside the front door and cried my ass off.

I left the house twice more that week. I sat on the back deck, and I sat on the porch. The chairs were filthy, so I cleaned them.

I was sitting on the porch when I thought I heard the Impala. Dean’s off on Sundays but I didn’t expect him. He hadn’t called or texted.

He must have driven all night, to arrive at ten in the morning.

And yes, he made me beg.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
